The World is Ending
by cookies111
Summary: Less genaric than it sounds. The world is ending. One by one the countries are begining to fall. France wants to see him once more before his world is shattered. Character Death. FrUK. T for death and very slight gore.


_A/N: This is yet another FrUK. I don't have much to say. If you see any mistakes tell me. _

_This is just something I wrote for school._

_I don't own Hetalia._

The world is ending.

It was simple, it was clear, it was obvious, but no one wanted to believe it. Every day when or if we woke up, we each prayed that it had been some awful, twisted dream and that it could all be over with just raising our eyelids and facing the beautiful morning light. But every day we didn't wake to find everything back to normal. Instead the sky was always painted heavy grey with smoke rising from flames and the remains of burned buildings. Instead of the peaceful sound of a morning dove's coo or even the familiar rumble of a busy city we used to hear when we awoke, our ears are now permanently filled with the terrified yells and shrieks of our people, and even the sound of a bomb explosion from time to time. Where temperatures would once reach no higher than a typical March afternoon, they were now searing with nearly unending flames.

In short, every time we woke up, we woke up to hell.

I don't remember how it started. Not many do. It was something about electricity, gold, oil, or something along those lines. But no matter what caused this world-wide catastrophe, it got out of hand.

Riots began to break out, people made outrageous threats, extremists launched attacks, and wars were even stared. Weather they were between two different countries or inside the same one it made no difference. One by one, we began to fall.

The first to go were Sealand, Latvia, and Liechtenstein. With the loss of his litter sister, Switzerland went into a state of depression, leading to his downfall. Austria followed behind him.

Next was Canada. The poor boy had always been so weak and quiet compared to everyone else, it was a miracle that he lasted as long as he did. Many others went – Egypt, Spain, China, Italy, Germany, Korea, Scotland, the list went on. And the ones who remain are suffering, both from grief and from the pain of the destruction that somehow still took place.

The wars had stopped eventually. Our people realized that fighting would never get us anywhere. But by the time they saw that, it was too late. Weapons were still there, humans still had needs, and leaders still held responsibilities. Extreme measures were taken by individuals to get what they needed. Sometimes that meant killing.

It was like the nations of the world were evolving backwards. Slowly, bit by bit slipping back into a time when man knew little of peace and were savages.

Tragedy can do that I suppose. But there are still some of us left. For one there is I – France. Ukraine and Belarus are still here, trying to keep the spirit of their fallen brother and the Soviet Union alive. Belgium, Poland, and Finland are actually getting along better than most of us. How, we have no idea, but somehow they are. They are in no way unaffected, but they stay alive and, for the most part, healthy.

America on the other hand is another story. The self-proclaimed "hero" is teetering on the very edge of life and death, and he's not leaning towards the better side. The end of Canada hit him hard, but he tried to stay strong. However, he had gone into a fit of destructive rage that was aimed at the countries who had attacked his little brother. He ended up forcing his army to invade China and Russia, who had worked in tandem to take down the weak countries first.

Of course, the larger Nations won the fight, and in the process weakened America immensely. His population was decreased, and the remaining people weren't doing well with money, jobs, or even food.

My condition is better than his, but not by that much. I never got into any wars, save one, small civil, but I still had riots and demands that had to be met. Paris was where it was the worst. The screams of my beloved citizens never failed to send chills up my spine. However, I'd seen the countries that still bordered or were close to me, and I could say with confidence that I'll probably live longer than all of them. For reasons beyond my understanding, no one really seemed to want to attack me, even though I still have many valuable (although they were once worthless) goods.

Maybe it was because I didn't really have many enemies. I never really fought with many countries other than England. And when I did battle with others, it never lasted long and we made up in the end. I only had to worry about the shortage of items.

But at this moment, my wellbeing isn't my concern.

~* * *~(Change of tense btw)

My heart was thumping in my chest like the hoofs of a galloping race horse would against concrete. All the blood I held in my body seemed to have been rushed into my face. I swear, I was almost as hot as the infernos that nearly surrounded me entirely.

This wasn't the first time the streets of this city had burned. They had been bombed, they had been rioted, but nothing compared to this. Before, the fires had died out. Before, this beautiful country had recovered and risen back to power. But this time, there would be a different outcome. England was burning to the ground. By the time the flames would stop, not even smoking ashes would remain.

Struggling to draw in a breath, I urged my legs to pump themselves faster – although it did little good seeing that I was already sprinting down the streets of London at my full speed. Despite the pain I felt all over (both with my body, and my heart), I kept a steady pace and searched franticly for _him._

I'd seen the horrific scene that was currently what remained of London many times in the recent past. I had watched the turmoil grow worse and worse over such a short period of time with my own two eyes. In the beginning, when the end was only just starting, there was damage, but not nearly enough to have much of an effect on England.

But time passed, and things worsened. After only eleven months, I was in tears. England was in tatters – a shell of the strong, proud country he once was. And it hurt me. It hurt me because I cared so much for him. I was always there for him when we were young. Yes, we were constantly in fights about every little thing, but most of them were teasing or out of fun. Only a choice few were actually taken seriously to me (I can't say the same for England though. He took everything he did so far and with such meaning. It was cute).

I could never tell him that of course – he would be too shocked at my feelings and be repulsed by them, no matter how much I adored him.

I was always sure to not let a single soul know of my desires for him. Of course I made some . . . suggestive comments to him, but I did that to everyone. It would seem weird if I didn't do it to him as well.

I don't know why I hid them all the time from _everyone_. Maybe because it would seem too odd. Maybe I was afraid the information would leak to England. I know I feared his rejection more than almost anything. There was only one thing that could have been worse. And it was right around the corner.

Wetness began to leak from my baby blue eyes with that thought. He couldn't. England couldn't . . . _Arthur _couldn't. He just _couldn't_! A single sob escaped my lips, and I searched harder.

'_Oh mon dieu. Come on Arthur, où êtes-vous? Where are you? Please be okay.'_

My long, blonde hair and indigo cloak trailed behind my bolting body. People dashed past me in the opposite direction I was running, causing my speed to reduce. Normally I would be shoving them out of the way in my desperate attempts to reach _mon petite_ Arthur, but these were England's citizens. He'd be furious with me if I so much as bruised one of them, especially during this time.

Suddenly, I fell to the ground as pain rippled through my chest. My lips pressed themselves together so that my screams would not seep out. I clutched at my heart through my cloths. Something had happened in Paris. A bomb went off. A small one, but nonetheless a bomb. Some of my people had died. Although I was only on the ground for a few seconds, it seemed to take forever for me to even get the strength to rise back to my knees.

I hoped that England was at least having a slight moment of peace, because this was simply unbearable.

As if on cue, and as if the world suddenly made it its life-long dream to torture me, the sound of loud cracking rang out through the streets of London. The ear-piercing shrieks of horror increased drastically, and more humans rushed by me at greater speeds than before. A few that felt safe where they were stopped to look back at whatever was happening.

Still on my knees, I lifted my head to see what awful disaster was happening now, and my eyes widened. Creaks and groans of wood and metal sounded. Bells that were hidden by walls of brick crashed into each other, making a rich, strong noise. It may not have sounded that bad, but the cause of such sounds was too horrific to describe in detail.

Big Ben was leaning dangerously to the right.

With a booming "SNAP!" the clock's middle foundation broke. It ripped in half, tumbling towards the streets – and humans – below. In a flash, the number of screams were cut in half. My stomach dropped all the way to my feet. Today was the day. It would surely happen today. This was the day the country of England would face its demise.

Forcing myself back onto my feet, I stumbled towards the pile of rubble. Bloodied corpses covered the ground, making me sick. I did my best to climb over the mound of shattered brick and metal. My legs and arms got cut up, but I made it to the other side. I briefly looked for England among the bodies, but thankfully found nothing.

My mind ran through all the possible places where he could be. There were a million areas, but knowing England, he'd want to be where the action was. That meant he was diffidently in London. But what if he was too injured? If that was the case, he could be at his house. Or he could be stranded in the middle of an ally somewhere, rolling around in his own blood.

Shivering at the thought, I decided that I would try his house first. My running was a little slower now, but it was still running and I was making pretty good time.

I arrived at England's house to find it in . . . almost perfect condition. All the walls were still where they should be, the statues he had still stood strong and unharmed, even the garden appeared to be growing pretty good – although it looked like it hadn't been tended to in quite a while.

It was odd, and most would find it comforting to see that some things survived the horrible destruction, but to me it felt misleading. Like it purposely looked like that just to fool others into thinking that there was absolutely nothing wrong.

Drawing in a shuddering breath, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the spare house key Arthur gave me (I stole) the last time I visited him. The second I unlocked the large, mahogany front door, I was slapped hard right in the face with the strong, horrible scent of iron. I shut my eyes and tried to picture what the worse possible scene could be so I could be prepared for the worse.

'_Oh dieu, oh dieu, oh dieu.'_ My mind repeated. (Author note: "dieu" is French for God. Just in case someone doesn't know.) '_Just breathe . . . _ _through your mouth! It's okay . . . Alright, maybe it's not okay, but go be there for him, lâche! He's going to need someone.'_

Bracing myself for whatever I may witness next, I pried my eyes open slowly, holding my breath.

I almost fainted. I didn't know it was going to look like _this_. Before, I really liked the color red, but now I never want to see it again. It was everywhere, decorating the walls and smeared into the floor. There were even a few scarlet specks on the ceiling.

". . . _Angleterre_?" I called out softly. It wasn't supposed to have been a whisper, but in my shocked state, it was. There was no response. Everything was still. The curtains weren't even rustling.

I tried once again, this time louder. "_Angleterre_? _Etes-vous ici_? A-are you here?"

This time I heard a weak voice answer, ". . . France?"

I whipped my head in the direction of that voice, that voice I knew so well, that I grew up with. That voice that would rise when I would tease and annoy its owner, that voice that would speak words of comfort when I needed them most. That voice I came to love without end.

When I see its owner, there's a pain in my chest – this time not from something happening in my country. England was slumped in a chair by the window, completely devoid of his usual "gentleman" appearance.

Heavily bloodied bandages that he probably had to put on himself were poorly wrapped around almost every part of his body. He looked almost mummified. It was scary. All he needed now was a coffin, and he'd be ready to be placed in the ground. Near his heart, a large spot of red was seeping through the green coat he had draped over himself. That must have been caused by Big Ben.

A single green eye – single because the other was covered with dripping, red gauze – peered at me curiously, almost childishly, like it didn't believe what it was seeing.

A sad smile stretched across my lips and I walked over to the chair. "_Bonjour_ _Angleterre_." I sighed, pretending to ignore his appearance. I felt extremely lucky that the worse I got was broken ribs and some cases of internal bleeding.

Finding a chair that wasn't stained, I pulled it up and sat down next to Arthur. All the while he just stared at me, bewildered. A few moments of silence passed before he spoke. "The bloody hell are you doing here, Frog? Don't you have your own country to take care of?"

"I was just bored and had nothing better to do than come see my favorite little nation." I lied, trying to lighten the mood. "My country will be fine without me for a few hours. Why? Aren't you happy to see me? I know you missed me _cher_. Don't try to deny it."

I tried to pretend that nothing was wrong. This was how I would always act before this all started. I would tease and make fun of him, and we'd get into all manner of arguments and fights. Arthur must have decided to play along. He gave one of his signature glares, and mixed it with that adorable pout he wore when he got upset.

"Oh shut it you wanker. So . . . how are things with you? You don't seem to have many injuries."

I sighed, "Yeah. I'm alright, I guess. I'm in pain, but I'm getting by. How about you?"

Arthur laughed, but the atmosphere in the room diffidently got darker. "Oh well if you really want to know, take a good look at me, why don't you. Big Ben is down, all my siblings are gone, the queen's dead. In the past few months I've been bombed, burned and rioted. Oh I'm bloody brilliant!"

I held his icy hand in my own, warm one. The dams behind my eyes were once again being pushed to their limit. I was always such a crybaby, especially in times of tragedy. But England was so strong. He always was. To see him reduced to _this_. . .

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I looked right into his shining emerald eyes. "How long do you think you can hold out for?"

He cast his gaze downward. "Probably only for one more day at the **very** most. I don't know how I'm even still talking and sitting up."

The shattered pieces of my heart hit the edges of my lungs and made it hard to breathe. I knew that it was today, but I still didn't want to hear it out loud. "_A_-_Angleterre_. . ." I whispered. "Y-you can't . . . Arthur."

He smiled, "Hey Frog, look at it this way, at least in a few hours you can have a real break from me. Ha, just like you always talked about, right?"

There was a small "pop" noise as my mouth jumped open. Did he really think that's what I wanted? Him gone. Oh god no! Never! Sure I may have told him some things in the past that may lead Arthur to believe that. Hell, I may have flat out said it. But I never meant any of it. I thought he knew that. I thought that the whole point of our arguments was just to get on each other's nerves. I really thought it was obvious. Like when he says he hates me, he doesn't truly mean it . . . right?

". . . You really think that, don't you?" I asked him. My only reply was a curt nod of his head. I was about to yell at him, try to get him to know and believe that I'm not going to be able to live without him and that my worst nightmare is him leaving forever, but I was cut off before I even started.

Screams were heard from outside the house before a burst of heat broke the window we were sitting by. A small mushroom of black smoke filled the room. Through the smog and my watery eyes, I could still clearly make out England, now sprawled out on the floor from the window's explosion, a sorrowful smile on his face and his eyes fogged over.

"And there goes Buckingham Palace, along with my king." He mumbled from his place on the ground. New gashes were on his body, and bleeding heavily. If the king was dead, this was almost the end. A country without a ruler is just a bunch of people in one place with no guidance. The leaders of our countries are our centers of existence. And now that England had lost his king. . .

A good amount of the smoke had cleared, and I went over to England. I cradled him in my arms like a mother would her young child. I studied him closely. His eyes were beginning to grow duller and duller shades of green. Some of his bandages had come undone and showed gruesome wounds and burns. A thin line of blood trailed out of his mouth and down his chin. Arthur's once bright golden hair had dulled to a dirty blonde and grown greasy with the lack of care it received. My little Arthur, who I spent so much time with, I practically raised him when we were young, was banging on death's door.

"Oh _mon dieu_." I breathed for the thousandth time that day. This was it. England's last moments.

"_Angleterre, _can you hear me?" Despite the tears that I let freely flow down my face, my voice was steady and clear.

Arthur coughed a few times and spit up some blood, but answered, ". . .Y-Ya"

Good. Now what was I going to say to him? It had to be special, it had to mean something, it had to tell him how special and irreplaceable he was to me, it had to – it had to. . .

Before my brain approved of the idea, I pulled Arthur up to me and kissed him hard on the lips. I've always wanted this. I had no idea why I hadn't done it sooner. I felt him gasp into the kiss, but he didn't pull away, so neither did I. He tasted sweet; like Earl Grey tea and cinnamon. In my fantasies, our tongues had met. There had been so much heated passion. There had been more.

But I underestimated my feelings. I was thrown into ecstasy by just this simple connection of his lips to mine. I wanted time to freeze so that that moment could last forever. But I had to pull away. I was _dying _to see his reaction.

His eyes were as wide as they could go in his weakness and his mouth was open a little. "Je t'aime Arthur." I whispered, and gave him another peck on the lips for emphasis. This time an irony taste lingered on the corner of my mouth. I liked it away, wanting at least _some _part of him inside me.

Nothing was said between us, but England began to grow visibly weaker and weaker by the second. I needed to hear his voice one last time before he slipped away.

"S-say something!" I begged him.

His body began to go limp in my arms, but before the former empire completely left the world, he began to cry – something he'd only done a few times in his entire life.

"Y-You idiot!" he sobbed, voice soft and barely audible, "W-Why'd you have to do this _now_?"

At first I thought he was angry at me because he didn't return the feelings, and he didn't want to die knowing the person he hated really did love him. But as his eyes drifted shut – tears still streaming from them – he whispered, "Why couldn't you tell me sooner? W-we could have been something. F-Francis. . . I-I L-" he wasn't able to finish. With a final exhale of air and a gurgle of blood deep in his throat, his heart stopped.

Time stood still. All sounds from outside had stopped. There was no one to make sounds anymore. England was gone.

For lord knows how long, I just sat in England's blood-stained house, holding him and drowning in my sorrows. He loved me. All this time he loved me. He was right, if I had just said something earlier, we could have been together, we could have been happy.

And Arthur died . . . Arthur died in emotional pain, thinking about what we could have been and why we weren't.

The world may not have been completely destroyed yet. There were countries left. But as far as I was concerned, my world had crashed down around my feet. My world was over.

My world had ended.

_A/N: I still have nothing to say…hope you liked it. Not too sure how I feel about the ending. Oh well_

_See ya!_

_Review_


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